


the start of all things that are left to do

by Kangoo



Series: LGBT Destiny Month 2019 [28]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Basically just friendship love and happiness, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Fluff, LGBT Destiny Month, Male-Female Friendship, Mistaken Identity, Multi, because fuck it they all deserve a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: theme: dancethey end the revelry on a high note and a masquerade





	the start of all things that are left to do

**Author's Note:**

> Lek belongs to acquos ([https://arcquos.tumblr.com/](tumblr) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/arcquos) )  
> Thyme and Sable belong to [BaronetCoins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronetCoins)
> 
> title from hozier's "Wasteland, Baby!"
> 
> this was. a long time coming. did i hold on to it for an entire month because it fit the theme too well? hell yeah i did. hope it doesn't disappoint! hella fun to write tho

The Revelry is a novelty. A festival of rebirth for a City that has only begun the process of healing from the wounds left by the Red War. It's a celebration of survival, of hope and joy. Traveler knows they need those.

And that’s all well and nice, but it’s lacking something. A climax. A final event that says, _we did it, we're alive, we'll make the most of it_. A way to truly relieve pent-up energy, a party like none other. Something bright and colorful and terribly, wholeheartedly _extra_.

"A masquerade?"

Ikora shrugs lightly. The idea is odd but sound: Guardians are used to keeping their faces obscured but never in a way that is more fun than practical, and civilians never say no to wearing a disguise. Eva Levante nods absently, her mind already miles ahead, considering the costumes she could design.

"Isn't is dangerous, to gather so many masked, anonymous strangers into one place?" Zavala asks. They couldn't check everyone – anonymity is the point, after all.

"What major threats are we still facing? Uldren is back in his prison cell, and it's not like any other enemies of humanity could easily disguise as human with a mere mask," Ikora says. She stirs her tea once, twice, slowly, giving him time to come up with a response. When he doesn't she adds, "We won, my friend."

"The peace might not last."

"Another reason to celebrate it while we still can."

He nods, conceding the point. "It's... Not a bad idea,” he admits. “Guardians and civilians could both use the distraction. Cayde?"

The Hunter Vanguard startles out of his thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Your opinion on the matter?"

"Huh- yeah. It's good. Good idea! Dancing's fun. And it would be a fun challenge for my Hunters. I can make them run around and play Guess Who."

"So it's decided." Zavala claps his hands with finality, signifying the end of the meeting. "Eva, I trust you'll be able to organize this event yourself?"

"Amanda Holliday mentioned her involvement in similar events before I came back. I'm sure she'll agree to help me if I need anything."

"Good. Send any requests for funds and materials my way, I'll make sure they're fulfilled in the shortest delay."

 

-

 

 

If there's anything Eva enjoys, it's putting Guardians to work. They're a dutiful, hardworking lot and follow her directives with few questions and great effectiveness. And they always seem so... Impressive. Untouchable. Larger than life. It's fun to see a little old lady like herself boss them around.

"No, no- this banner isn't straight.”

A few of the guardians helping her giggle as one shoots back, "Neither am I, maybe that's why this isn't working."

She rolls her eyes. "Higher on the left side, please."

"Yes ma'am!"

So polite too.

Guardians also like to be bossed around, she thinks as a Warlock jumps up to the banner. They hover next to it, lifting it inch per inch until their friend back on the ground gives them a thumbs up. Something cracks as they let themselves drop down, and they briefly buckle as their broken ankle stops supporting their weight.

Eva can't help a brief moment of worry, even as their Ghost appears to heal them. Guardians are so reckless! She gets halfway to a heart attack whenever she sees them take undue risk out of habit or disregard of their personal safety.

"Miss Levante, ma'am? We put the flowers up like you asked."

She turns to the second group of Guardians. They're covered in flower, petals stuck in their hair and the folds of their ornate outfits, as if they tried to clean themselves up but gave up halfway through it. The Titan has a whole branch of wisteria hanging over her shoulder pad. _Someone_ has been throwing flowers around. All three of them, she guesses.

Still, a glance behind them shows the job was done well enough. She claps her hands. "Good work! Why don't you help your friends here clean up, and then you can go help yourself to the cookies on my desk?"

They exchange excited looks before running off toward the first fireteam, throwing her hasty goodbye as they go.

She shakes her head fondly. Mention sweets – or festival garments – and they're like children again, running around, desperate to please her in exchange for a treat.

She takes a look around to check their handiwork while they chatter in excitement in the background. The City square they have taken over for the Masquerade is looking quite festive already. Flowers cover the walls of nearby buildings, sometimes hiding and sometimes highlighting the colorful flags and banners hung alongside them. Garlands of lights and dyed cloths are strung overhead, casting colorful shadows on the passerby. It wouldn't look too out of place in a fairy tale. She's pretty proud of their work.

It's a group effort. The best things usually are.

 

-

 

"I'm hungry."

"I know, Lek."

"And my feet hurt."

"I know, Lek."

"And I'm tired..."

"I might repeat myself, but I _know_ , Lek."

Lek hits Razel over the head with her stack of paper.

"Hey!"

She tries again, but this time he's expecting it. He parries the attack with his own stack, feints, and aims for her side. She dodges. When he tries to follow after her she trips him and he goes flying, only avoiding falling on his face by some Warlock bullshit miracle even he isn’t sure how he pulled off.

"Asshole," he says without bite.

She giggles, though she’ll deny to her death that’s the sound she made. "Yeah."

The two of them were put on street corner duty because of those kinds of antics. They weren't trusted to do anything else. Turns up being competent and successful Guardians means jack shit in terms of party planning. Neither of them know how to hammer a nail in a way that doesn't threaten the structural integrity of the entire wall – something they discovered only after the fact. Whoops.

Which is how they ended up here, handing out flyers for the upcoming masquerade. No one can fuck up flyers-handing. Well, maybe they could, actually: Lek's original plan was to go somewhere very high up and throw them down so they'd fall all over the City, saving them the effort. Ralek would have gladly gone with it, too, but Ikora saw them climb up a building and sent them back down with a stern warning to stay out of sight for at least a whole afternoon.

But an afternoon is a long time to be hanging out flyers for, and they're so _bored_.

Nothing good ever comes out of the two of them being bored.

"You know," Razel muses after giving a curious woman one of his flyers, bringing his stack down to a little over half of its original height, "This would go a lot faster if we'd split up."

"Yeah but imagine how boring that'd be. I'd probably be asleep already."

"A nap sounds good right now..."

She waves her own stack. "I think you're missing the point of the exercise."

He hums, unconvinced. Stares down at the flyers, wondering why he never learned how to nap with his eyes open.

"Hey," He says after some reflection time. "Bet I can get rid of these faster than you."

Lek's eyes come alight at the word 'bet'. She turns her laser focus on him and lifts a hand – bets are a tradition, among Hunters, and so is the use and abuse of loopholes. Better lay some ground rules. She counts off her fingers and rattles off, "One flyer per person, no throwing any in the trash, thirty minutes time limit, whole city is fair game-" She pauses, waits for an objection that doesn’t come. She grins like a cat and bends her last finger. "Have fun."

Then she's off like a shot, jumping to the roofs with her stack of paper clutched in her fist. Razel blinks, processing the last seconds, then takes off the other way.

He throws flyers at passing people, stuff them in bags and mailboxes and the unsuspecting hands of small children. They're not exactly the target audience but a child technically counts as a person, and that's one more flyer to give once he's already thrown one to each parent.

He doesn't try to give out stacks or to throw them away. A bet is a bet: he's honor bound to the terms of the contract. And it's more fun that way anyway. He laughs at the baffled look on strangers’ faces when he runs past them, barely slowing down to slam a colorful paper in their hand.

He's down to a single flyer when the comes back to the rendezvous point with fifteen seconds to spare. Lek appears moments later, her stack reduced to one as well.

They look at each other.

_Ten_

Razel runs toward her–

_Nine_

She jumps to the side, rolls and jumps back to her feet–

_Eight_

His momentum makes him stumble on the pavement–

_Seven_

He skids to a stop–

_Six_

Flails his arms to keep his balance–

_Five_

Turns around–

_Four_

Leaps–

_Three_

Reaches out–

_Two_

Gives a little boost of Warlock power to his jump—

_One_

And stuffs his last flyer in her pocket, just as the thirty minutes alarm rings.

He loses balance a second after and falls over her, sending them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"I win," he says, breathless from the exercise and the cape twisted around his neck.

"I'll buy you a drink," she says, and kicks him in the stomach to get him out of her cape.

 

-

 

"Hey is it me or is Zavala having _fun_?"

Ikora is busy watching Zavala when Cayde appears out of the blue and comes sit on her desk. She’s used to it enough she doesn’t even jump, just scout to the side to make space for him.

A dozen feet from them, Zavala and Eva are talking animatedly about... Costume designs, she hazards. By the look on her face, Eva doesn't approve of the Commander's taste in color schemes. No one sane of mind ever does.

"He enjoys having an occasion to dress up," she tells Cayde, eyes never leaving the spectacle of Zavala trying to look firm and dignified while waving his arms around.

"I thought he could only have fun with military strategy and crocheting. And reading poetry. Maybe building model ships in bottles.”

"He has the heart of an artist."

"And the fashion sense of a four year old on a sugar high?"

She chuckles. "Yes, that too."

 _Bold colors make bold statements_ seems to be his motto in most aesthetic-related things. And Zavala do love making bold statements.

They watch as Eva seems to beat some sense into him. Zavala nods, apparently satisfied by her proposition, and they bend together over the papers scattered on Eva's desk.

"I'm glad," Cayde says out of the blue.

Ikora mentally traces back the thread of their discussion, trying to find what he's referring to. "That he's having fun?"

"Yeah. He needed that. We all did." He leans back on his perch, somehow never dislodging the precarious piles of books behind him. "A stressed Vanguard isn't good for morale. Guardians can sense those things, you know?"

She smiles, almost despite herself. Out of all of them, Cayde is the closest to the guardians they guide. It's always heartwarming to see how concerned he gets for their well-being, and how much he tries to pretend he doesn't.

"About stress relief-" he turns fully to her, scooting as close as he can without falling off the desk. "You _said_ you'd come eat ramen with Razel and me tonight."

She sighs. "I know, Cayde, I'm sorry. I was busy. I'll come next time."

"You won't have to."

She blinks, startled, and turns to the new voice. Razel grins, the way he does when he manages to sneak on someone — a rare occurrence — and bounces up to them. His hands are full with white plastic bags, so he greets her with a gentle bump of their shoulders.

"You got the goods?" Cayde asks.

He drops the two bags on the table. "Spicy ramen for three, two cans of beer and one cup of tea, to go," he rattles off like something learned by heart. "Also, dumplings."

They high five. Ikora watches, bemused.

"If you don't come to the ramen, the ramen will come to you," Cayde says wisely.

Razel nods very seriously and jumps on top of her desk, next to Cayde. Fitting them all in what little space there is in-between the books is a balancing act he only partially succeeds at. A few piles wobble worryingly as he settles in place. He steadies them with a panicked glance to Ikora.

She only shakes her head, long suffering, and chooses to ignore she near catastrophe. "Thank you, Cayde," she says.

"You're welcome! My only contribution to this was coming up with the genius idea and making Razel pay the bill." He ducks the balled up napkins thrown at him, laughing. “You owed me Glimmer! And a few favors.”

Razel squints at Cayde, unwilling to concede the point but aware Cayde is right. He huffs, crosses his arms. “You’re lucky it was for Ikora, you lazy tin man.”

Ikora picks up her ramen cup with a soft smile as they keep bickering.

 

Cayde and Razel don't do much eating, in the end. They're too busy trying to pilfer slices of meat and dumplings from the other's plate, and stabbing each other with their chopsticks in retaliation. They get into a vicious chopsticks war for a minute, trying to get a hold of the last dumpling.

They're having fun, though. So is she, she realizes as she takes advantage of the distraction and deftly picks the dumpling off the plate, shoving it in her mouth before they can try to reclaim it.

Maybe Cayde is onto something with that whole "stress relief" thing.

 

-

 

They're playing cards when Cayde brings it up.

"Are you coming?"

Razel looks up quizzically. It's not wise to look away from a game with a Hunter it’s not like he’s not losing already. He's pretty sure Cayde isn't even cheating this time. Holliday might be but her poker face is too good for him to tell. Being half raised by a gambling addict robot will do that to you. That’s the thing, though: she’s gonna beat him whether or not she’s cheating. She's got year of training with Cayde, and he only got into cards like... Two months ago.

He didn't they were going anywhere, but he's been wrong before.

"Coming where?"

Cayde snickers, opens his mouth to reply, but Holliday kicks him in the knee before he can say whatever he had in mind.

"To the masquerade,” she says. "You know, the thing you gave out the flyers for?"

"Bold of you to assume I read those."

She snorts. "I kinda assumed so, yeah. Do you have any threes?"

"Go fish."

Cayde leans back, stretching his legs under the table. He nudges Razel with his foot. "So. You. Masquerade?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, I'm going, if I find anything to wear. You?"

"Free drinks and the opportunity to watch _Zavala_ dance? You bet your ass I am. Amanda?"

"Ellie has been dragging me around the City looking for a couples costume," Holliday says, looking kind of dead-eyed at the thought of shopping. "At this point I don’t think I have a choice."

He's not sure he has ever seen her dressed in anything other than her usual shipwright outfit. He doesn’t quite manage to imagine her in civilian clothes.

"What are you going as?" He asks Cayde, who seems to have it all figured out.

Cayde winks.

"You'll see," he singsongs.

"Come on!"

"Give it up, pal, I already tried," Holliday sighs. "He won't talk."

Cayde shrugs, unapologetic.

"It's more fun that way."

Razel drops his cards on the table and falls on his back, groaning. "I don't know what to wear," he whines.

"Ask Eva. Or Ikora."

In the corner of his eye he sees the two of them pick up his cards, share them between their hands. He doesn't think they're playing Go Fish anymore.

He likes watching them play, the easy confidence with which they slide cards in and out of their sleeves, the distracted way Cayde drums his fingers – bare, for once, metallic blue scratched to chrome in places catching the light of the hangar. It speaks of an old habit. Years playing together, learning each other's tells.

He yawns.

"I'm gonna... Take a nap," he says quietly. "Wake me up for dinner."

"Sure thing, buddy."

He's going to wake up with a backache, but that's a problem for future Razel.

 

-

 

Razel did end up going to see Eva Levante for his costume. And because she's a bit of a miracle worker, a bit like magic, she managed to make him one in the few days left before the Masquerade.

The sun sets on the last day of the Revelry, setting the City alight in shades of pink and gold. The streets fill with people, in groups or alone, all covered in colorful outfits and fantastical masks. The air rings with excited chatter and laughter. With the way they act one could think they have been waiting for this night for years, not weeks.

Considering it’s the first of its kind, maybe they _have_ been waiting for years, unconsciously, for an occasion to dress up and dance like nothing else matters.

Razel is in Eva's tent so she can do last minute adjustments on his outfit. He shakes his head left and right while she pokes him with needles, grinning at the jingle of the bells on his hat.

She dressed him like a jester from old Earth stories, all in shades of blue and green and purple. All his clothes bear pattern. His pants are striped, his billowing sleeves covered in colored diamond shapes. It’s a wonderful, vibrant headache. She covers the lot with a long sleeveless coat, embroidered with flowers and vines and little skulls. Shiny pearls and baubles hang off the high, flared collar, catching the light when he moves around.

"Do you like it?" Eva asks.

He grins. "Hell yeah. It looks incredible."

She smiles in return, satisfied. "Good. Try the mask on."

He obediently ties the mask around his head. It only covers the top half of his face and doesn't do much to hide his identity. But he feels like anonymity isn't really the point of the event, in the end.

It’s about the drama, the _extravagance,_ she told him. He trusts her professional opinion on the matter.

Eva takes a step back to admire her handiwork. At her command he spins slowly in place, showcasing her own handiwork.

She claps her hands with a huge grin.

"Well, I think we're done here," she says brightly.

He looks at her in confusion. "What about payment?"

She waves him off. "No need for that. You're the hero of the Red War. It's the least you deserve."

It's way too nice a title considering the only thing he did was shoot in whatever direction the Vanguard pointed him toward. But it _is_ nice, and Razel never says no to free stuff.

"Thanks ma'am!"

"You're very much welcome. Now _shoo_. Go have fun!"

He nods, grinning right back at her, and leaves.

 

-

 

Lek is dressed as a white duck.

Razel was _not_ aware that she’d be dressed as a white duck.

Incidentally, Razel almost died tonight when he burst out laughing at the sight of her costume.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He screams, laughing too hard to dodge her fist. He staggers back, every bell sewed to his costume jingling at the brusque movement. “You look good! It matches your hair!”

“Damn right I do,” she says, in a way that implies he will definitely be thrown over a railway if he contradicts her.

In his defense, the idea is hilarious. Well executed, but ridiculous.

The white mask is bordered with fluffy white feathers that melt into her hair, and the bright yellow bill shadowing the lower half of her face almost doesn’t look ridiculous. Her round, feather-covered dress is another thing entirely. It isn’t goofy, not quite, but… The image of Lek in a dress is just way to weird for him to take seriously.

Well. It is _kinda_ goofy.

But it’s true: it looks good on her. If only because she wears it with the same dignity and certainty as her usual Hunter getup. It gives it a certain air of class.

“Anyway, you can talk, you _clown_.”

“I’m a jester!”

“Aren’t jesters just another type of clowns? Like fools? And buffoons?”

She’s right. But she shouldn’t say it. He strides off with a huff.

“The party’s in the other direction, idiot!”

He spins around. The bells on his hat jingle merrily, and one of the pointy sleeve things actually slap him in the face when he turns. Lek cracks up as he freezes, confused.

“It’s- a good costume,” she gasps in-between bouts of laughter. “Real fitting!”

Honestly, there’s nothing he can say against it. She’s right. He stills kicks her in the shin as he passes, for good measure.

 

Night has fallen by the time they finally make it to where the ball is held. The square is already filled with people in garish costumes, a riot of colors and fabrics. It’s… overwhelming. Razel grabs on to the back of Lek’s costume as they weave through the crowd. The feathers slipping between his fingers help ground him. Still he breathes easier once they’re a little out of the way on one side of the square.

“Alright?” She asks.

“Yeah, I’m just not used to… you know.” He waves vaguely, not sure what he’s gesturing at. “People. Didn’t even know there were that many in the City.”

“It’s the last city on Earth, of course there are many people in it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect _that_ many!”

She shakes her head. “We need to get you around more people. You spend too much time alone in space.”

She’s not the first to tell him that. Won’t be the last, either. He shrugs — if they miss him they can always vidcall him. He gets bored too fast, in the Tower. Lek knows it, too: most of the time she flies off with him, she just comes back more often.

She nudges him with her elbow. “Hey. Wanna go get some drinks?”

He look at the sea of people, then back at her. Then back at the people. Thinks about the fact that he hasn’t eaten anything today.

“Think they got chips back there?”

“What kind of monster doesn’t bring chips with the beer? Of course they do. C’mon.”

 

-

 

In principle, masks are supposed to hide their identity.

In practice, there’s no disguise in the world that could ever hide Shaxx’s voice.

A crowd has formed around him, clearly separated from the rest of the people milling around the square. He’s wearing a knight armor, the kind from far before the Dark Age, and holding a tankard of beer in each hand. His helm doesn’t have any opening yet the cups keep emptying. How he’s doing it, now that’s the real mystery of the night.

They’re playing ‘Who can out-drink Shaxx’, even if it’s not much of a game. The answer is a clear and simple ‘no one’, though Cayde-6 has come very, very close to before, by virtue of being a robot.

(Shaxx not being one is still up to debate, so it’s still an impressive achievement.)

But a drinking competition is always a fun challenge. The guardians flocked to it. If the Crucible taught them anything, it’s that Shaxx and a good, competitive time are near synonyms. Civilians were quick to join in once they noticed the commotion — they like competition just as much as Guardians, they’re just more likely to get alcohol poisoning.

One thing leading to another, they ended up with two teams facing off next to the drinks table in some unholy combination of beer-pong and a drinking contest.

The goal, officially: get the opposite team trashed before yours. Then someone suggests Shaxx finishes the remaining drinks of the winning team, and it becomes a race to get the Lord of the Crucible as drunk as possible before they run out of participants sober enough to compete.

One of the competitors sways in place as she throws the ball. It goes wide and the momentum of the throw seems to throw her back as well. She falls over her team and almost bring a few down with her like bowling pins. Her friends appear out of the crowd to drag her away, ribbing her for being a lightweight.

Cheers rise in the crowd as they wave her off. She manages a sloppy salute in return before a friend pushes a cup of water in her hands. She focuses all her attention on it, staring down the cup as if it holds the secrets to the universe, Darkness, and everything.

"Who will take her place in the red team?" Shaxx bellows. "Come on! You cannot know yourself without testing yourself!"

Someone steps out, wearing a wolf pelt over their head. The muzzle shadows their face; it's hard to discern their face in the low light of the square.

"I'll show you how it's done," the stranger says as he joins his team.

Laughter rings through the group. "Sure you will, old man!" Someone on the other side calls out.

As a matter of fact, yes, he does.

His aim is excellent – he almost never misses. And he sure can hold his liquor. By the end of the round his team is winning by a rather large margin and his luck holds for a few more rounds after that.

He loses a few games, almost by design. Whenever he's in a team with players too drunk or too incompetent to aim, suddenly he can't aim either and the other side ends up winning with most of its drinks intact. Meaning Shaxx ends up drinking most of them.

He's... Definitely trying to get Shaxx wasted. It seems to be working decently, too. The Titan is clearly feeling the effect of so much alcohol in such a short span of time. His voice gets even more excited, he rambles on, gestures more aggressively.

Finally, when he looks properly inebriated and people have started wandering off, too drunk to keep playing, the stranger turns to him.

No words are exchanged and they both have their faces hidden yet an entire conversation happens in a single look. Shaxx puts down his tankards and joins the team opposing the wolf-man. He cracks his fingers, his neck, and takes the ball.

"Try to keep up," Saladin says, mocking.

"Oh, you're going _down_ , old man."

 

-

 

Suraya is not a fan of parties. She doesn't like how stifling the place feels, how closed off, doesn't like the loud music. The costumes are nice and free food is always a plus, but–

She's an outdoorsy kinda woman. She fares better when she can see beyond three feet ahead of her.

She sighs and lifts her mask up to take a sip of her drink. It's nice, she thinks begrudgingly. Not the cocktail – although that, too – but... Seeing people so happy and alive, guardians and civilians alike. She has to admit it was a good idea.

Once again she looks over the people dancing to the tune of a popular song. Out of all the wiggling, jumping people, one of them catches her eyes. His costume – all in shades of brown and black – seems dull compared to the more colorful ones of those surrounding him, setting him apart. The mask entirely makes up for it.

It's a skull. Just... an entire bull skull. That's neat. Bit morbid, but neat.

That's not what makes her notice him, though. Not entirely. It's the weird... _thing_ he's doing with his body. At first she thinks a Fallen somehow managed to infiltrate the City, with how weirdly he's moving. It would explain how he's filling up these sleeves: it's not muscles, it's arms, plural.

But no, closer inspection reveals it's just a regular old human or close relative, doing some approximation of dancing.

There's bad dancing, and there's _bad dancing_. This is definitely the later. There's no rhythm, no grace, no–

Suraya narrows her eyes. She knows this guy, somehow. The mask slips forward a bit, revealing a flash of bare blue skin before he adjusts it. And by the Light, she'd recognize this bald head anywhere.

"Zavala?" She blurts out, incredulous.

The man, busy looking at whatever his feet are doing, lifts his head at the sound of his name. How he heard it among the noise is a mystery she’s too surprised to linger on. He notices Suraya and makes his way towards her in an awkward shuffle. It’s almost in tune, but it’s _not_ dancing.

Once he’s close enough he greets her with a nod and a simple, "Hawthorne."

She whistles. "Damn, Commander, they let you in with a weapon of mass destruction like that?" She says, gesturing to the dance floor he just vacated.

He glances behind his shoulder, then at her, trying to understand her meaning. She sees it happen when he does, in the jerk of his shoulder, like a repressed laugh. He replies, entirely deadpan,

"I know. My dancing skills have blinded more than one before."

Well, he's not wrong. She has half a mind to poke her own eyes out in the hope of wiping the sight from her memories. Unfortunately hers wouldn't grow back so she'll have to refrain.

He holds his composure about a second before letting out a chuckle. "Ikora has been teaching me for decades," he says. "It's starting to pay off."

"Well if that's the improved version, I'd hate to see the original."

"I'm sure Cayde has recordings somewhere."

She mock-shivers.

"No thanks. I like being able to sleep without nightmares."

They fall quiet, both knowing Zavala's dancing is the least of their problems when it comes to nightmares. Both keenly aware of how rare a dreamless sleep has become, since the Red War.

After a short, tense pause, Zavala clears his throat and says, "Nice mask, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Owl?"

"Yeah."

She takes another sip of her drink. The poncho she's wearing as a costume is bulkier than what she's used to, covering her from head to toe. She went for a creepy barn owl look: from the stares she got from some, it's a success.

"It's good, to see them have fun after-"

"Yeah," she repeats. "I was thinking the same thing. It was a good idea. It's not healthy to hold on to the dead so much and not do anything for the living."

He nods. "Less grieving those we lost, more celebrating those we still have."

"Cheers. I'll drink to that." She salutes him with her cup before taking a long gulp of it. It's sweet and fruity, with a hell of a kick. The gal dealing with the drinks sure knows her job well. He mimics her movement, but doesn't drink. She gets the impression their Commander isn't big on booze. Makes one wonder why he even has a drink in hand. Cayde is her first guess. Or Razel, though one rarely needs to make the distinction, attached at the hip like they are.

For some time after that the two of them stand next to each other in silence. Somehow it's more comfortable than awkward. Though maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised. The two of them are similar in more than a few ways. It makes for easy companionship.

She goes to take another sip of her cup and is disappointed to find it empty. She eyes Zavala's drink.

"You're going to drink that?"

"Ah- no. Here, you can have it."

He doesn't have to say it twice. He watches her take a tentative sip – it's unexpectedly sweet – and only looks away once she's nodded in approval. She wonders, again, why he bothered to get a full cup if he wasn't going to drink it.

With his now free hand he gestures to the dance floor. "See them?" She follows the movement to a matching duo. They're both decked in red. One's an Exo, with just a simple red mask to cover her identity. The other is harder to recognize, dressed as what she guesses to be the Red Riding Hood. "That Exo is one of my Titans."

She looks again, and – no, she can't see it. Without the shoulder pads it's impossible to distinguish a Titan from any other guardian.

Guardians and civilians, it's easy. Guardian have that way of walking around, not quite military, rather the way one walks when they are wholeheartedly attuned to their own body. Combat and repeated resurrection will do that to someone. But guardian classes? Without their pseudo-uniform, it's hard to tell.

"Huh. I wouldn't have guessed. Guess without their whole getup they're just people underneath."

He tilts his head to the side, giving off the impression of a contemplative look despite his masked face.

"Yes," he finally says, his voice weighed down with an odd emotion she's a little too drunk to determine.

He shifts on his feet, adjusts his mask, starts to turn his head towards her and stops. He seems almost— flustered?

She throws him a curious glance. "Something on your mind?"

She expects a few things. She does _not_ expect him to ask, "Do you want to dance?"

Flashbacks of his atrocious dancing comes back to mind. On the one hand it looks as painful to take part in as it is to watch, if not more. On the other, she's pretty sure it would be considered a service to humanity to stop him from embarrassing himself and the art of dancing even further.

She looks at him for a long time, mulling over the question. She chugs Zavala's drink in one go.

"Alright," she says, throwing the two empty cups in a trashcan. "Let's go."

 

-

 

There's something off about the masquerade. No, not off, not quite, but – something strange, definitely.

Ikora can taste it on her tongue like smoke in the air, like ozone before a storm. The arcane energies of the Universe hum around her, static tingles on her skin.

A feeling worth exploring, she thinks.

She rests her back against a nearby wall and closes her eyes. Full meditation is impossible to achieve in such a noisy, bustling place, but she doesn't need a full meditation. She just needs to concentrate–

 _There_.

A burning fire in the midst of candle flames, bright as the sun to her inner eye. She can feel it at the edge of her consciousness, moving...

Coming closer.

She opens her eyes.

"Hello, Osiris."

He's dressed as himself, mostly. It's been so long since he's been in the City, it might be the best costume of all. Who would recognize him as the former Warlock Vanguard or a banished Guardian? Especially in this crowd.

He stops a few feet from her. Not quite hesitant but wary of encroaching in her space. Of what she may do if he poses himself as a threat to her city.

"Ikora," he says carefully. "It's been too long."

 _And whose fault is that?_ She doesn't voice the thought. It has been a long time. She moved on from her resentment.

Well, most of it. But she’s not looking for a fight tonight.

"It has," she says, detached. "What are you here for? It must be important, if it could drag you away from your simulations."

He shakes his head. "Sagira insisted. Apparently I need to get out more, or I'll truly become as insane as you think I am."

 _As insane as we **know** you are_, she thinks ruefully. Though he does not look the part, now. He looks... happy?

His eyes crinkle, betraying the smile his mask covers. "I can see gears turn in your head. What are you thinking?"

She waves her hand. The red fabric of her sleeve seems to glow, embers-warm, under the fairylights. "Nothing important." Then, because it needs saying, for her sake if not his, "It's good to see you. Have you been well?"

He shrugs. "As well as one can be when neck deep in Vex. But what about you? How has the Vanguard position treated you?"

It _has_ been too long, she realizes. After all it was Razel who went after him, the last time. Razel who's been in contact with him, as well. They saw each other, but only briefly. Only in passing.

"I've been well. I enjoy my work, and the people I do it with."

"Silver linings," He says. She can hear his grin and answers it in kind. They both know this position would give them grey hair, if it was possible. "It's hard work, but you've always been a hard worker. I saw you kept up your study, as well."

She blinks. How does he know? "Yes. Yes I did."

"Impressive. I could barely do anything else but Vanguard business, in my time. Makes you admire the wonder of good delegation, hm?" He chuckles wryly. "I liked your papers on the Taken – especially the latest, on the Taken Techeun. It was brilliant."

She has to admit, she's touched he kept up with her. It's good to know he still cares in his own way, even though she wonders when he found the time to read her work. Typical Osiris: never calls but reads all her dissertations.

"Razel helped me gather much of the data," she says, for the sake of honesty.

"And he helped me get a hand on your researches," he replies in kind. "He's a good kid. Helpful."

She smiles, fond. Mentally she notes to warn Razel about the danger of handing Warlock researches to rogue agents, for good measure. Then again Osiris is a bit of an exception.

"He also told me you got married."

She tenses, expecting... reproach, judgment, resentment, she's not sure. The impulse is irrational – he hasn't been his teachers for an eternity – but she can't help it.

He notices it and only looks sadder when she forces herself to relax.

"I did," she says coolly. "We sent you an invite."

"I wasn't in a good place then," he tells her, almost pleading. "I'm... Sorry, Ikora."

She looks at him for a long time, wondering... Osiris has never been to admit he's wrong. So why ask forgiveness tonight? Why not years ago, when she still felt betrayed over his actions?

But for better or for worse, it _is_ tonight. So she extends a peace offering – if not forgiveness, then something close enough. It’s not often that one hears an apology from the great Osiris, after all.

"Her name is Nasreen. She's a Guardian too – a Titan. We met in the Crucible."

They met on opposing teams, to be exact. After Osiris was banished, Ikora felt... Lost. Uncertain. With the loss of her mentor, she turned to the only other thing that truly felt familiar to her. The Crucible. Her and Nasreen had a brief but legendary rivalry, the undefeated champion against the rising star. Then Ikora left again to focus on her duties, and Nasreen...

Followed after her. Asked her out for drinks. Held on to her, first as a friend then a lover, when Ikora sorely needed an anchor. She will eternally be grateful for Nasreen’s impact on her life, and she couldn't ask for a dearer friend or a better wife.

She's so, so lucky to have her.

"She's- beautiful. The bravest and kindest person I've had the fortune to meet." She smiles, warmth pooling in her guts at the thought of her wife. She tries, maybe pointlessly, to summarize a whole person in a few words – to show Osiris what she sees in this woman. "She loves cats, keeps conspiring with Razel to make me adopt strays. She always tell me I don't eat enough, and she bakes me sweet and stashes them around my work station so I have no choice to eat them."

It seems too little. There isn’t enough time in a single night to explain the impact Nasreen had on her life. But Osiris looks at her as if he gets it.

"I'm glad you have someone like her in your life," he says. "Is she here tonight?"

"No. She's working a rescue mission in a remote part of the EDZ, couldn't make it back without putting it in jeopardy."

They've been married for long enough Ikora doesn't mind. She does wish she could share this experience with her wife. But there's always next year, and the one after that. Neither of them is going anywhere.

Osiris takes a step back. "Well, then it's my duty to entertain you in her absence."

"Your duty?"

"As- your mentor."

"You're not my mentor anymore," she reminds him, not unkindly. Neither of them can fall back on old habits, act like they’re still master and student. They're equals now, in power and position. She doesn't look up to him the way she used to and he doesn't look after her like he was supposed to.

He nods, conceding the point with a kind of sadness she’s unused to seeing in him. "True. As your friend, then." He extends a hand. Hopeful, maybe, that she sees him as a friend too. "Would you like to dance?"

She takes it. "With a friend? Always."

They move to the dance floor, slotting themselves between groups of dancers. The light is brighter away from the sides, and it reflects off the metallic details of her costume. The peacock feathers-train of her dress fans around her as he makes her spin, a graceful arc of reds and golds.

"A phoenix?" He asks, jerking his chin at her costume.

"The theme was _birds of a feather_. For unity."

She smoothly steps out of the way of two men passing through the crowd. She recognizes Shaxx’s shining knight armor hanging off the shoulders of a wolf-headed man, both roaring drunk. She can't help a snort of laughter as she watches them go, stumbling over each other and breaking out in fits of drunken laughter.

Osiris follows the movement easily. She's not surprised to see he can dance: he never could bear the thought of not knowing something.

"We match," he says, nodding to the feathers covering his shoulders.

"We do," she says, and is surprised to find her words weighed down by a deeper meaning than mere fashion. She compensates with a smile. "Though you could have made an effort."

He sniffs imperiously. "I had better things to do than to find a costume."

"More like you wear one everyday."

He spins them around sharply, almost making her stumble. She adjusts her stance and doesn't bother covering her chuckle. She’s right and they both know it, he’s just sensitive about his fashion choices. As he should be: they’re horrendous. She dearly hopes he’s not responsible for whatever the Followers of Osiris are wearing.

 

She gets three dances with him before the Vex overtakes his mind again. He draws back, somewhat reluctant, bows, and strides off without a word. There no explanation, but she didn't expect any. He would never apologize for his single-minded obsession and she has long stopped waiting for him to.

Yet, before he's swallowed by the crowd, he stops and turns to her.

"I'm happy for you, Ikora. Truly. And I'm- I'm proud of you."

He's gone before she can find summon up a reply.

She breathes out, not quite a sigh, and a weight seems to lift off her chest with it.

 

-

Razel has been dancing for Traveler knows how long. It feels like hours and mere seconds all at once. The evening is a blur of colors and sounds in his mind. He aches all over, his legs from the dancing and everything else from laughing too hard.

He spins Lek around one more time as the music comes to a stop. She stops gracefully, arms extended, throwing her head back. The effect is quickly ruined as she wobbles dizzily.

They high five and she slips back into the crowd, not bothering with words when their surroundings are so noisy. She'll be back by the banquet table, he suspects. It won't be a problem to find her again once he's got tired of dancing like she did.

He has a few more songs in him, he thinks. He's ready to dance through them alone – or maybe find another single dancer to keep him company – when he catches a glimpse of a familiar Ghost in the crowd.

She disappears quickly, but he'd recognize Virgo anywhere. He makes his way to her Guardian. She's already turning to him before he reaches her, her attention caught either by the high-pitched jingling of his many bells or a warning from Virgo. Pretty sure she got into the habit of keeping tabs of his approach when _he_ got into the habit of jumping on her back when she least expects it.

"Sable!" He calls out, waving. He closes the remaining distance at a jog and catches her in a hug. "Hi! You look stunning."

She returns the hug with a quick squeeze of her arms. "You too! I love the little bells."

He shakes his head to make them ring and giggle helplessly.

"I'm a little drunk," he says.

"I can see that."

"I tried to beat Shaxx at his... Alcohol Crucible. Drinking Royale. Whatever." He shakes his head again to get his thoughts in order. "How are you? Are you having fun?"

"Not as much as you," she says. "I just got there."

"Bet you were in your lab and forgot the time."

She rolls her eyes and punches him lightly in the arm. "It's not a bet if you already know you're winning."

"You guys keep telling me I shouldn't take losing bets!" He takes her hand between his and grin in excitement. "Wanna dance?"

The abrupt change of subject throws her off-guard. She tilts her head in confusion. He bounces on his toes, waiting. When no explanation offers itself she asks,

"Why would I want to dance?"

"Because it's fun?"

"I don't know how to dance," she says like he's a bit dense.

"Never stopped me before."

She's about to say something else – a clever comeback, he guesses – when she glances over his shoulder and her eyes widen under her mask. She freezes all over, briefly, before startling into a flurry of movements. She grabs his hand and drags him toward the dance floor, almost frantic, shoving people out of the way in her haste. She only stops when they're some way into the crowd and pins him in place with her hands on his shoulders.

"Sable?" He asks, puzzled, and reflexively rests his other hand on her waist as if they were about to waltz. Ikora tried to give him dancing lessons – some habits stuck. Not that he can waltz, per say, but he can make it look like he knows, and that's almost as good.

She shushes him. Then, realizing it is far too noisy for anyone to hear him over the music, she says, "I just saw Thyme."

They start to sway gently with the music. He nudges her back, stepping with her, and slowly they sink in a sort of slow dance where neither participant is paying any actual attention to the movements.

"Don't you wanna see her?"

She blushes. "I mean, yes, but-"

She steps on his foot and is too flustered to notice. He looks down and endeavor to not do the same. They both have that typical slender Warlock figure but he's far heavier than her – she does too much lab work to put on muscles the way he does. He doesn't think she'd like it if _he_ stepped on her toes.

Still keeping an eye on his feet – they move out of rhythm but at a safe distance from Sable's – he says, "Don't tell me you're _shy_."

"I'm not used to dressing up!" She hisses, taking them in a clumsy spin. They bump into another couple. Luckily the two are too drunk to care and let themselves be pushed over. "What would I even tell her?"

"I don't know, I've never asked anyone out before."

She shakes her head. "No, no, no, it's not right. It should happen-"

That makes him smile, it's just so... _Sable._ "Like in the movies?"

She blushes harder but doesn't deny it.

He spins them around again, no less clumsily but with more enthusiasm. There, a few feet away, stands an exo in a beautiful red dress. He doesn't know her personally, but he's heard enough from Sable to recognize Thyme at a glance.

(The many times he stumbled on her staring dreamily toward Thyme help, too.)

He grins. "I spy, with my little eyes-" He moves his hand to her chin and turns her head the way he's looking, "The most gorgeous Titan in the room."

She makes a noise like she's choking on her spit. Somehow, her blush deepens, gaining her entire face and the tip of her ears. He snorts, trying to stifle his laughter at his expense. This time, when she stomps on his toes, he knows she meant to do it.

"Easy for you to laugh," she hisses. "You wouldn't know embarrassment if it kicked you in the face."

He spares a brief, drunken thought toward the mechanics of such an event and pulls a face at the subsequent image it inspires him.

"True," he concedes. "But I win way more bets that way."

"Good thing I don't take bets as seriously as you then."

He glances above her shoulder, toward the red Titan. She's making her way on the dance floor, not far from them.

Razel shifts on his feet and spins them in a circle. He lets go of Sable so that they're only holding hands. Her momentum forces her to take a few stumbling steps back in an effort to keep her balance.

"Have fun," he tells her, winks, and lets go entirely.

She trips and falls backward, confusion turning to panic. But instead of falling flat like she probably expected her back collides with the strong chest of a certain Titan.

Thyme closes her arms around her to keep her upright. "Are you alright?"

Sable turns Crucible red. Razel mouths _'Thank me later'_ at her and sinks in the surrounding crowd before she can reply with a rude gesture.

 

-

 

Razel moves to a side of the square to nurse his drink and his sore toes, unfortunate victims of his benevolent act on Sable's love life.

Lek dropped by to hand him a cup and immediately disappeared, distracted by a particularly fashionable woman walking by. Lek is either pestering her about her clothes or trying to get into her designer pants. He never knows, with her.

The good thing is she forgot her own drink when she ran off, which means he gets double the alcohol for none of the effort of making his way to the bar. Sweet victory. He chugs it in one go, less for the taste than to get his buzz back. Lek is more of a 'straight tequila with a hint of lime' kinda person. He likes his cocktails fruitier.

He throws the empty cup in the nearest trash can and startles when a voice says, just behind him, "Nice dunk."

By the sound of it, it belongs to an Exo. His voice is low in a way that isn't natural, the way people sound when they're playing a character. It has a nagging familiarity to it, known but hard to place.

It's the alcohol, Razel thinks, and the noise surrounding them. He has a good memory for voices usually, recognizes them better than faces.

He turns and yeah, at least he was right on that front. He's an Exo, though it's hard to tell with his head covered as it is with a hood shaped like a chicken's head. Its beak, glinting copper in the fairy lights, covers the top half of his face. Tawny feathers trail down his neck like a mane, spill over his shoulders in a cloak. Some have that same copper-shine to them as the beak, catching the lights as every movement the Exo makes.

There's nothing majestic about a chicken, but this costume sure makes a valiant effort at it.

"Nice costume!" He says in return, gesturing wildly to the kind of man-shaped pile of feathers. His drink spills over his fingers, soaking the fabric of his glove. "Ah, shit."

He takes the cup with his other hand and stares, unsure how to proceed. Then he shrugs and takes the glove off with his teeth, the wet fabric sticking slightly to his skin. He juggles his drink one more time and gets rid of the other glove for good measure.

The Exo makes a choked noise. Razel throws him a confuses glance as he stuffs the gloves in his pocket. The man waves his hand in dismissal.

"Do you-" he clears his throat, oddly flustered. A glance at the (now notably emptier) cup in Razel's hand and he seems to come to a decision, his shoulders straightening as he does. He plucks the cup from his grasp, finishes it in one go and throws it with pinpoint accuracy into the trash. Before Razel can protest, he bows and offers him his hand. When he speaks again it's with the same pretend assurance as before, low and sweet. "May I have this dance?"

A giggle escapes Razel. He pitches his voice high, as well-bred-lady-of-the-Dark-Ages as it will get. "You may," he says, putting his free hand in the Exo's.

The Exo chuckles as his fingers close gently over Razel's, cradling his hand the way a Dark Age gentleman might have. His touch is warm even through his gloves, the heat of his internal hardware seeping through the metal.

He pulls Razel forward. His hand comes to rest on his lower back to guide him through the crowded dance floor. Somehow they don't bump into anyone. To Razel it's almost second nature to follow his lead, step in his track, place his hand on his shoulder. The feathers tickle his bare skin.

"I hope you're not too attached to your toes," he says brightly. His bells jingle merrily as he dips his head forward, coming closer so as to be heard over the current song. "I'm a bad dancer."

"I'm sure you'll be fine." The electronic song fades and lets place to a slower, softer one. "Just follow my lead."

Razel glances down to their feet. Left, right, left. Back, side, together. Right, left, right. Forward, side, together. With the Exo leading it's easy to keep the rhythm.

"Don't focus on your steps too much, you'll lose the music."

He looks up again, counting in his head. One, two, three. Back, side, forward – no. He fumbles, almost tripping them up.

The Exo doesn't waver, stepping around his blunder easily. He dips his head forward, the side of his feathered hood brushing against Razel's cheek.

"It's just three steps, alright? Back, side, together. Forward, side, together. Good. Keep it up."

He counts in Razel's ear until he can find his way around the steps on his own, the Exo's fingers tapping the rhythm against the small of his back.

When Razel manages a spin without getting his steps mixed up, he presses him closer and says, proud and fond, "Attaboy."

And Razel finally manages to put a name to the voice.

In surprise he stumbles, trips them up, sends them sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs and clothing. A flailing elbow catches him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Cayde lets out a squawk of surprise on the way down, smothered by Razel's weight dropping on top of him. He starts to say something, but it's drowned out by Razel's laugh.

"I didn't recognize you," he chokes out in between fits of giggling. "I just-"

He collapses in giggles again before he can explain how hilarious this is. Cayde looks at him for a second, puzzled. Then the situation dawns on him – the mistaken identity, the sheer... Masquerade cliché of it all. He bursts out laughing.

"I was talking right into your ear!" He says, almost laughing too hard to talk. "How did you not recognize me before? I'm hurt, really."

"You changed your voice!"

"Only in the beginning!"

Razel can't manage a shrug with his shoulders shaking with laughter. He shakes his head and pushes himself on his forearms, staring into Cayde's face. The hood is askew, the beak falling over one of his eyes. It's him alright, with the horn and the bright blue eyes and every single scuffs and scars. Razel can't believe he didn't see it sooner – even the way he walks is unique and familiar.

He brushes his thumb under Cayde's eye, to a small scuff in the paint there. A shiver goes through Cayde at the touch, when he scrapes his nail lightly against a nick in the metal. It seems to travel all the way through his cloak, the feathers shivering with him, puffing up before settling back.

"Buddy," Cayde says, "We're laying in the middle of a crowd."

Indeed they were. "Maybe we should move," he replies, distracted. There's a bit of motor oil on Cayde's cheek – he wipes it with his thumb, scratches the part that stubbornly sticks to the metal.

Cayde's hand spasms against his back.

"Alright, get up," he says, voice strained. Razel rises easily, holding out a hand to help him up. "Let's get out of here."

Razel nods, bumps his shoulder against Cayde's once they're both on their feet. The space they occupied is immediately filled with dancers and he has to hold on to Cayde's hand to avoid losing him. Cayde tugs lightly on his hand and guides him off of the dance floor only seen in glimpses of his glittering cloak through the crowd.

"Where are we going?"

Cayde points to the closest wall. "Up," he says. "C'mon. I have something to show ya."

Razel doesn't question it. He follows Cayde, climbing over a dumpster, a wall, a roof; using his Warlock power when an obstacle proves to be too high. It turns into a bit of a race, at some point, but not one he ever expects to win. His aim sucks, with a gun or with a jump, even worse when he's drunk.

He misses his last leap and hits the edge of a roof, scrambling to keep hold on it. Cayde catches him by the wrists, pulls him up before he can slip down.

And then, just like that, they're on top of the world.

[♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wm4CrOfbHMI)

It takes Razel a moment to notice, still unbalanced from the run, the fall, the alcohol. But when his eyes finally adjusts he gasps in wonder.

They're – high up, higher than he thought despite having climbed here. The whole City is spread up under them, a gigantic spiderweb of light like a reflection on water of the stars above.

"I know, right?" Cayde moves to stand next to him, resting his hand on Razel's shoulder. "It's not the highest spot in the City, but... Close enough."

Razel grins. He lifts a foot, feels the pull of gravity, almost pitches forward. There's a hum in his bones, the cold, empty air taking all the space in his bones. He feels light, buoyant. Altitude has that effect on him, like battle but softer, quieter.

Music drifts up from the party below, the melody clear and the lyrics lost to the wind. He turns on his toes, flirting with a fall. A step forward, another, then he's spinning, feet walking a loose circle as he goes round and round. His coat fans around him, bells jingling along with the music. He goes faster. The lights below and the stars above blur together, vertigo making his heart beat faster and faster–

He stops, abruptly, when he bumps into Cayde. Strong arms loop around him, steadying him. He's laughing, he realizes, shoulders shaking with it. He lets his head fall, resting his forehead against Cayde's. Cayde chuckles under his breath, pressing his hands against Razel's back.

The music fades away. For a moment, it's just them, laughing like idiots again.

"You really can't stay standing tonight," Cayde says.

"Easier for you to sweep me off my feet," he replies, breathless from laughter.

He lifts his hand to Cayde's face, pushes the hood back, pulls him in. Cayde goes easily.

There's a kind of deep-seated satisfaction in touching him. Fingertips lodges in the gaps of his metal plates, dry lips against his mouth in a clumsy, smiling kiss. Like the breathtaking relief of pouring cold water on a burn. The fire inside him, the restless, burning energy that drives him, dimmed to low embers. Warm and comfortable, seeping in his bones in place of the altitude high.

The arm Cayde has around his waist tightens, pulling him in until they're flush together. His other hand travels upward. He strokes his back, feather light, up his neck. He knocks Razel's hat off his head and tangles his fingers in his untied hair, tugs at it just enough to angle his face right.

It's a spark to his embers, setting him alight once more. He wants more – no, he wants _everything_. Every inch of Cayde against his skin, every breath lost between them.

He clings harder, dips a hand under Cayde's collar just to feel the warmth of his whirring core against his skin. He lets out a needy whine smothered by a gasp as Cayde makes up for it by kissing his jaw, his neck, pushing his coat out of the way so he can follow the line of his neck to the junction of his shoulder. He lets go, briefly, to take off his gloves. His hands don't stray from Razel's skin for long. As soon as they're bare they find their way back to him. One dives in his hair again, running through the loose strands, the other stroking the skin of his waist before dipping under his shirt. It runs over the slight jut of his hipbone, the hard plane of his stomach, his side, his ribs. Almost greedy in its climb up his body. Razel shivers, at the touch and the cold wind against his skin where his shirt rides up.

In retaliation he rips off the feathered cloak — definitely shredding the lace tying it in his hurry to get it _off_. It falls in a flutter like a bird taking flight. He rakes his fingers down Cayde's back, blunt nails digging into the soft leather of his armor. He didn't dress any differently under the heavy cloak. Part of Razel is glad for it. He knows how to get him out of these clothes and he's not sure he would have the patience to understand the workings of a costume right now.

He digs his fingers in the vulnerable spot to the side of Cayde's spine, where a few naked wires come close to the surface. Cayde gives a full-body shudder, chokes out a moan.

"Yours or mine?" He says, voice ragged and low.

It takes a moment for Razel to get his thoughts enough in order to process and answer the question.

"We can transmat directly to mine," he gasps out, almost feverish from Cayde's touch.

Pros of living in your ship: you never have to bother walking home.

"Yours it is."

A flick of his wrist and Cubix appears, transmats them home without a word.

Cayde's cloak and Razel's hat remain on the ground, forgotten.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pas De Deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359838) by [BaronetCoins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronetCoins/pseuds/BaronetCoins)




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